I wrote a letter when I was undocumented,
Became a large brick wall filled with nails and empty voids,
Degrees, certificates, notebooks, notes, random *** poems, receipts, papers, papers, papers,
Overcompensating for my lack of status.

I hid under Las Vegas’ scolding sun while wanting to be seen,
Always missing the Aguascalientes’ springs,
When you didn’t need AC.

Sometimes I still wonder what happened to my elementary and middle school friends,
The ones I couldn’t say good bye to,
Because we left so sudden,
Grandma and I.

Randomly aftewards…

I wrote a letter to my future self:
“Whatever you end up, remember you are an educator…”
I inherited my teaching spirit from my mother,
I imagined that words one day would set us free;
They didn’t,
But they sure helped,
Helped a lot,
Especially them three words “United States Citizen”.

A former friend of mine once prophesied that 10 years after the Obama administration
Folks would realize the harm they’ve done to innocent people, immigrants.
It’s been more than ten years,
I want my money back.

I stopped worrying about Ice Cream trucks once they stopped selling chocolate tacos, I prefer the raspado man.